


After Wycome

by bamftastik



Series: Dragon Age Drabbles [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 10:52:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3065102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bamftastik/pseuds/bamftastik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(war table spoilers)</p><p>Dorian attempts to comfort the Inquisitor as he broods on the fate of his clan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Wycome

Dorian found the Inquisitor beyond the camp, sitting alone on the ruins of a toppled statue. He was staring off into the darkness, turning a bottle in his hands.

"Drinking again?"

Misamahl'len looked up at his approach. "It's a regeneration potion."

"Of course. You took quite the beating today."

"I'm fine."

"Yes, and you've embarked upon a new and exciting field of magical study. I still don't understand this fascination with fighting from the fore, standing shoulder to should with that great, sweating Qunari. Magic is better practiced from a distance. Much less messy that way."

"Or why don't I just summon the dead to fight for me? Because _that's_ not a perversion of magic." He was being sullen, even more so than usual. Considering the circumstances, Dorian couldn't blame him.

"Does this have something to do with what happened in the war room?"

Misamahl'len turned away, fixing his eyes on the distant tree line.

"I hear craftsmen have been brought in. They are optimistic about the repairs. It was a clean break, they say. Though I must admit I'm curious as to how the war table was split so neatly in two."

The Inquisitor smirked, magic flaring from his fingertips to form a glowing sword. After a moment it winked out, his face lost to shadow again.

"Ah. It seems the Knight-Enchanter has a temper."

"Arcane Warrior." Still he wouldn't look at him. "It was Elven magic, once. Perverted by the Chantry. Taken, like so much else."

Dorian sat down beside him. "Half the keep heard you shouting at Cullen. Do you want to tell me what happened?"

"Like you don't already know."

"Rumor does have a way of spreading, particularly in quarters as close as ours. But Leliana came to me personally. She was concerned. And it concerns me that I had to hear it from her."

Misamahl'len turned to look at him, his eyes glinting in light of the distant campfire. "I'm sorry if the slaughter of my clan has offended you."

Dorian sighed. He moved to lay a hand on his knee, but the elf stiffened.

"I only mean that you can talk to me. You do _know_ that?"

He scoffed. " _Talk_. Right."

"I thought that went without saying."

Misamahl'len turned away again, staring toward the trees. They had left Skyhold days ago, fleeing deep into the wilds. The Inquisitor was running, searching for something perhaps, something like home. Dorian had tried to imagine it. Distant as his homeland was, he still had the luxury of missing it. What would he do, he wondered, if he learned that it had been scorched and burned, that everyone he had even known had been put to the sword? How would it feel knowing that he had been powerless to stop it?

"The way you were today, the risks that you're taking... it's not terribly difficult to puzzle out. You blame yourself."

Misamahl'len's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. "I was _my_ fault. I sent the soldiers in."

"On Cullen's recommendation."

He leaned forward, resting elbows on his knees. "He didn't deserve it, the things I said to him. Or maybe he did. But the decision was mine. I started this. And my people paid the price. Again."

Dorian slid closer, slipping an arm around his shoulders. Misamahl'len sagged, allowing himself a moment of weakness. Closing his eyes, he drew a shuddering breath. But then he straightened, gently but firmly pushing Dorian's arm away.

"Stop."

"I am not here to judge you. Let us simply sit. Or perhaps you need a distraction, something to—"

There was such pain in his eyes as he looked up at him, regret and guilt, sorrow warring with need. But he only turned away again, hugging himself against the night. "No." A sudden laugh ripped through him. "All this because Tevinter made a play for Wycome."

"You mean the Venatori."

"Do I? That the Duke had a Tevinter advisor was reason enough for suspicion, reason enough to dispatch him." He raised his head slowly, his eyes cold. "And yet here we sit."

"You cannot be serious."

He deflated again, his head sinking into his hands. "I don't know. I just... need some time. Alone."

Dorian stood, trying to catch his eye, but Misamahl'len wouldn't look at him. There was nothing left to do but turn away, leaving him to him to his misery. "As you wish, Inquisitor."

 

 

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